(i) used to worry about the time
by Flower of the Flame
Summary: extreme!au. Toshio's still a med-student at 33, with a kid and a handful of bills to pay each month. Seishin just so happens to be the cute, young pathophysiology instructor who's filling in as a favor to his dad, the dean. (a story told in ficlets of varying length, cross-posted to tumblr.)
1. part i

Notes: based on med. school in the states, because i can't claim to have knowledge of how the system works elsewhere; my knowledge of the tertiary program is tenuous at most so in no way should this be taken as an absolutely true account of things that happen in medical school all the time. will be continued as a series of ficlets. (oops i couldn't resist gomen)

It's seven-thirty in the morning, and if you would've bought yourself a cappuccino if weren't in between paychecks. And, yeah, it's hard to be friggin excited about _pathophysiology. _It's a sweltering eighty-five degrees outside. One and a half years in the Pacific Northwest has rewritten your opinion about good weather, (or just weather in general.) You'll take eighty-five.

But the fact of the matter is this: you're stuck here, in a class filled with overachieving students a good six years younger than you, _at least. _You figure you would've been one of 'em too, if you hadn't thrown caution to the wind, and ridden off with a girl right after your bachelors', just because you were an ocean away from your parents. Got married before you were twenty-five, and divorced somewhere in between.

Yeah, okay, your hand was forced a little bit. Her parents found out about the accident, shoved you into a job at the family vineyard or whatever, and all but gave you the engagement ring. Most days, it just comes back to her, the devil's child. Short on cash? Well, if you hadn't had to pay for that extra field trip…

And it's not entirely fair, but it's the way things have always been. The two of you never quite understand each other, and you'd like to think that's the way it's going to be. Hopefully not forever, but you can't make any commitments right now.

You sigh. No new text messages—your last date was almost a year and a half ago. You can only hope that the labcoat is worth it. Your thoughts drift between fancy cars, and equally luxurious apartments, when he walks in.

Fucking pretentious douche has an informal _suit and a tie _underneath his labcoat. Dude can't be a day over thirty, so you assume he's probably one of _those _students who took a couple years off to be condescending in Argentina or something. He even has an attaché case for Chrissakes. (Well, sorry, but some of us live off the discount racks at Value Village.)

You scan the classroom, and the only empty seat is the one right next to you. Figures. You'll just have to swallow this pill whole. You pull your phone out and scroll through your texts, hoping that you can find some excuse to ignore him. But then, you realize that he's not headed your way at all. He draws a few papers out of the case, and sets them on the lectern.

You almost don't know what to think. Baby-face over there can't be your instructor. He's just too _young. _And you know what that means. It'll be much, much worse than having to sit next to pompous douche for a quarter. He'll probably think less of you, 'cause you're thirty-three, working nights at a restaurant on campus, and trying to support a child that you made like thirteen years ago. You frown. If you hadn't registered late, you'd be in a section that met at a decent time.

But again, not your fault. It almost never is. External factors of some sort—daughter, job, ex. Whatever, really.

He doesn't have stage presence. It takes him a full ten minutes to get the class quiet. The syllabus was apparently emailed to all of you. (But, you didn't get it, go figures,) and it lists all the major tests, quizzes, and the recommended study, along with the homework. Oh. All right. As if this day couldn't get any worse. You can tell by the way he drums his fingers on his thigh, and the way he nervously fiddles with his collar that he's green. First class, probably. If it weren't for the fact that he's practically a walking GQ ad (blindingly platinum hair, stylish glasses,) you'd take pity on him.

Muroi, he says. His surname is Muroi, prefixed by a Dr., first name starts with an S. And hold up, you've heard that name before. Somewhere… you shrug it off though. Might just be a coincidence. He goes on at length about the contents of the course, course structure, minimum passing grades, first day kind of crap. You zone out, because it's still too early to have to deal with this kind of thing. Mental note to ask about office hours and all that shit later.

Class is dismissed early, because he apparently doesn't have much planned—figures. Seems more like a sneaky sob who springs a test on you when you're least expecting it. You catch the guy as he's packing up, which can be construed as a lack of tact, but, you suppose that he's probably gonna see you as some type of bottom-feeder anyways. "Hey, Doc?"

"Yes?" To his credit, he makes it seem like he's genuinely not-a-dick. "Can I help you with anything?"

"Syllabus." You blurt. You shift uncomfortably. "Er… I didn't get the email."

He frowns. "Did you register for the class after last Friday?"

"No—" You absently scratch the back of your head. "Actually... yeah, I think so."

He smiles. "Ah. That means that you haven't been added to the list yet." There's a temporary silence, and then "If you give me your card, I can manually enter you right now."

You grudgingly draw it out of your pocket—it makes you feel slightly vulnerable; a student ID, when you should be starting your first (or second) job.

He takes it. A few keystrokes later, it's back in your hands. "There you go, Mr. Ozaki."

"Thanks." You mumble. "Wait. What about the syllabus?"

"I emailed it to you." Another smile. You feel like there might be something off about them. Like it's just part of a veneer, or something. Maybe he is just as much of a jerk as you first thought. You sigh. At least, this time next quarter, you'll be doing clinical rotations, and not be stuck in a classroom playing is-he/she-a-med-or-a-dent.


	2. part ii

part ii:

You're not really on speaking terms with her, haven't been in a while. You stay clear of her, and she reciprocates.

She calls you "Ozaki," and she calls Kyouko "Mom." And damn you'd be lying if you said that you weren't just a little jealous of that. Because you're paying the bills, and your ex is more than a state away.

You think that there was a time when she thought that yeah, the two of you would eventually reconcile, and maybe slip back into the honeymoon phase of your relationship. It wasn't really for the lack of trying. It just came back to the fact that you were twenty-six and stubborn. You were supposed to have something other than a bio-chem degree from Berkeley and literally zero job experience to back that up.

And that loops back to you being young and dumb. There's a track record underneath your right sleeve, from a couple of parties gone horribly wrong. And the tattoo that may-or-may not have been cool when you were a senior… (_"Sir, we don't know if this procedure will completely remove that."_) Okay, well, it's more like a sleeve. Of pseudo-religious bullshit that you found in a textbook and decided looked cool. And then your girlfriend-at-the-time doodled up something. Three days and four sittings, and five hundred dollars later, you ended up with this thing that looked kinda cool and sorta dangerous but meant absolutely nothing to you. You don't think that your daughter has seen the entire goddamn thing.

(That's why you hate wearing the uniform. There are far _too _many gawkers.)

Fuck. No, you weren't supposed to go on a tangential self-pitying streak. This is why you hate studying on the kitchen table. _She's right there. _And looking at her inspires some sort of odd misplaced fatherly streak, and repulses you at the same time. It's weird.

On one hand, you want to tell her about all this _stuff_. Stuff that she shouldn't be doing, the youth counter-culture, WWII, maybe the fact that you _might_ find the pretentious GQ instructor with a mouthful for a name kinda attractive in that weird wow-I-didn't-think-people-were-made-like-this way (okay, well, maybe not that one.) And you sort of know that she already knows most of it, because she's goddamn "Hurricane Sunako." As Mikiyasu eloquently put it.

And you think, yeah. This is a universal thing. She's charismatic, which she gets from her mother, no doubt—but there's this surreal edge to it. You don't quite know how to put it into words. It's like something is off.

You shake your head. Must be overthinking it. You haven't had a drink in next to forever, and it seems like the last person you brought home was at least two months ago. Lonely person syndrome. Yeah, that must be it.

God, you really do need to start dating again.


	3. part iii

Notes: let it be known that this is purely a de-stress-ifying exercise for me so I don't really know if it's going to be finished or not... y uy;; that being said… if you leave reviews it motivates me to work more on this instead of other stuff… also the playlist for this thing is my study playlist so the contrast between chapters might be jarring in some places—the playlist switches from astronautalis to radical face…

part iii.

You grind your teeth. School isn't supposed to interfere with work. Granted, your place of work is technically on campus… but still. Instructors aren't supposed to unnerve you outside of the classroom. It's the same one—the one you think might be a dick, but might not be. (And if he catches you in a place like _this. _Rollerskates and pinstripes, a gaudy salute to the sixties…)

He's here with an older man, probably his employer or something. You keep catching wisps of their conversation. It wouldn't be entirely truthful if you said that you weren't interested in it. (You keep making excuses to be on that particular side of your section.) Their first topic of conversation was admissions. It doesn't really surprise you that he's on the committee. You think you know exactly what he's screening for. (The little 4.0 robots that you hated with a burning passion.) But the old guy doesn't seem exactly cordial either. (You think that just might be an academia thing, though.)

You check your watch. It's been ten-ish minutes. They should've probably decided on their main course by now. And you happen to catch the tiniest sliver of conversation as you skate back over. "Seishin. Your mother and I are worried about you. It's been a few months since…"

"Tatsumi." He supplies.

His father(?) flinches slightly at the name. "Yes. And we were wondering if you were…"

GQ (well, Seishin) doesn't really make a comment in response.

It's getting weirdly personal, so you decide to interrupt them. "Uh. Sorry. Did you need a couple more minutes or are you guys ready?"

The elder guy answers first. "We're fine." He briefly glances down at the menu, and you know that he's doing that for show. He'd picked out what he wanted a while ago. "I'd like the daily special with fries." He shuts the thing with a snap, and hands it to you before you ask. Either he's efficient, or uncaring—but you don't think that's any of your business, really.

You look over to your instructor. He frowns, and then asks for a Greek salad, a couple of squirts of dressing, hold the side that it comes with. And you think he's about to say something else, but he doesn't. "Alright. Will that be all?"

"Yes. Thank you." It's his dad that answers for him.

He meekly hands you his menu. But then before you can take it from him and skate off to the kitchens to grab table eight's order, and set it down in front of them, he says something. "… you wouldn't happen to be in…?"

"Pathophysiology? The seven-thirty section?" You take the menu, and give him a half nod. "Yeah."

He gives you another one of those strange smiles. "Ah. Yes. I remember now." But he says nothing else on the subject. And you can feel the old guy's eyes on you. It's probably best to leave.

You don't really know what to make of it all.

Thank god the problem resolves itself.

"I know how much you wanted to return to research next quarter…" He shoots a glance at his son. "But, I still haven't found a suitable replacement. There isn't anyone that has quite the same credentials…"

He nods. The information must not have been knew, exactly. "I understand."

"Good, good." Daddy Muroi uses his straw to stir his drink around. "And if you ever feel that you want to transfer…"

He nods again. "I will be sure to use you as a reference."

"Oh. By the way, your mother is going to set up a new exhibit soon. Somebody is going to loan her an artifact or something like that, but she has some other commitments." He taps the side of his glass twice. "It will be in a month or so… you don't have to do it, if you don't want to, but…"

"I will. It isn't as if I have anything else to do." He shrugs. And you feel kinda bad for him. He keeps getting pushed around by his dad.

"You're going to find somebody else, you know." Well, then. That was unexpectedly fatherly.

And as much as you _hate _to break up conversations, this one's getting a bit too sappy for your tastes. "Uh. One special. The half-pounder, with double everything, plus a side of fries, and one Greek salad, hold the bread, two drops of dressing." You set the food down with a practiced ease. "Is that everything?"

Long after you leave the table, you continue watching the pair out of your peripherals. The conversation doesn't really become much more animated than that. It's pretty clear that little Muroi doesn't really have an opinion on… well, anything, really. Or, if he does, he doesn't share it with his father.

But there's this particular segment of the conversation. This one that makes you feel like an idiot. They're talking about changes, and then the old guy says something like "oh well, I think I'm going to restructure the courses a little bit." Restructure the courses. All of them.

The guy's the goddamn dean. And his wife runs a museum. There's some resentment in that. His kid was probably born into the lap of luxury. And yours gets to skip that sixth-grade camp thing, because this month is going to be a bit tight.

You continue watching them. There's some resentment in the revelation. But then, he leaves before the check is brought out. He expects his son to pay for him. And you're not quite sure what to feel. Well, yeah, that's responsibility. But he's just pushing his kid around.

He pays with a card, and that's not surprising.

But the whopping thirty percent tip you find after he leaves is.


	4. part iv

Notes: ok with the completion of this segment, I think you've officially met everybody in the main cast! + 1 extra who might show up from time to time but I think you guys can guess that one.

Part iv:

You're home early because you need to study for a midterm. Well, you can't really call it a midterm, because it's only been one and a half weeks. But the test is pretty damn comprehensive, and you need to scrape a passing grade.

You hope the guy isn't like Dr. Kirishiki. You made the mistake of (_accidentally!) _hitting on his wife. And then you had to bend over and kiss ass for the rest of the quarter. And he gave you a friggin seventy-one. One point above the bare minimum. C'mon, it's not like you mean to ask her on a date. She wasn't even wearing a ring!

You're working at one of the questions in the book, when she walks in. You're fairly certain she's supposed to be out, or something. And you say as much.

"Megumi got a cold. She wants to get better before they go to Hawaii." She sets her things on the couch. And damn, that makes you just a little upset. You're usually not finicky about cleanliness or order or disorder or whatever, but the test has you on edge.

You grunt in acknowledgment.

"What's for dinner?"

"Pick something." And then you add "doable." Because you don't know how to make Mont Blanc or whatever it is teenage girls like these days.

"Can we go out? To the fondue place?"

You sigh. "No. Not tonight. I have a major test tomorrow."

You think that upset her, because you don't hear anything else for a while. Well, that's not entirely true. There's a little huff, and the creak of the sofa. So you add an apology. "Okay. Well, uh, maybe in a few months. When I'm not so busy, okay?"

"You're always busy."

You don't try to deny that one. "Yeah." _I'm in medical school, what do you expect? _"Sorry." _You do realize that you can't get anything with _just _a biochemistry degree, right? _

"You could've stayed there. It was a good job. Not the one you wanted, but…"

"What? Napa?" You snort. "No. Your mom's parents owned the vineyard. It'd be awkward if I stayed."

"But, you were good at your job. They wouldn't have kicked you out!"

And, oh god. You think you know where this is going, but you don't quite have the time. "Look. Your mom and I are still friends." _And that's all we're ever going to be. _

"But…" She's losing here, and she knows it. "If you stayed…"

"Are we talking about the same Kyouko here?" You laugh, and it's a little forced.

You swear you can hear that frown. For all the pseudo-philosophic crap she spouts, you have to remember that she's just thirteen. And you sigh, and pinch the bridge of your nose. "Sunako."

"Are you going to get rid of me too?" It's so earnest you swear you're going to vomit.

"What? No." _And I didn't "get rid" of your mother. _But you can't tell her you love her because this isn't really the time, or the place. "I know you're probably not used to…" You use your hands to gesture to the living room vaguely "…this… but…"

"But?"

You scowl. "You know what? I can't really deal with this right now." You scoop up your stuff, and shove it into your bag, and shove your keys into your pocket. "I'll be back late. Just…" you leave a twenty on the table. "Order pizza, or something."

If she cries, you're not entirely sure you can deal with it. Sorry, I don't know any of this, my daughter had a meltdown is never the correct answer, no matter how nice your instructor seems to be. And you know that it wasn't entirely responsible, leaving her alone like that… You shrug it off. There's only so much you can do. And, it's probably going to work out for the better.

The library is jam-packed. You don't know what you were expecting, but this wasn't it. There's only one table that's sort-of empty. And you must be extremely lucky, because that table, the only table that you can beg for a corner of, is the one that your instructor, the lovely, (charming,) Dr. Muroi (jr?) is seated at.

You sigh. Well, it could've been worse. It could've been Dr. Kirishiki.

"Is this seat…?"

"No." You look at the thing he's reading, and half-expect it to be a medical journal. You're pleasantly surprised when it's not.

"Sorry… is that…" You point at the book. "…good?"

He shrugs. "It's entertaining." And then there's a grin. "Don't you have a test to be studying for?"

You just stare blankly at him.

He chuckles. "Are you just going to stand there, or…?"

"Yeah. Sorry." You seat yourself quickly, and pile the textbooks and a mountain of scratch paper onto your desk. You feel just the tiniest bit out of place.

You do a couple of questions. And you try to do more, but you feel some sort of mental block that can only be remedied by talking. "Uh… sorry. I… uh, if you don't mind, that is…"

He nods, and adjusts his chair, and points at one of the questions.

"… yeah."

"Oh. I don't think I went over this during the lecture, but… asthma seems to be immunological."

"So, C?"

He nods in the affirmative. "How long have you been doing this?"

"A couple hours, minus the time it took to drive over here." And yeah, that sounds about right.

"I imagine that the material is rather tiresome."

You shrug. "It's okay, I guess." Not that you're _that _interested in diseases.

"I was going to get some tea. Believe it or not, the café's just as quiet…"

Wait. Is he inviting you to dinner? "Uh… sure?"

And despite your protests, he pays for your espresso, grande with shots.

Well, so maybe it isn't _as _quiet, but it's nice. You pick up where you left off, somewhere in the middle of asthma. You've got the bronchoconstriction and bronchial inflammation down, and you've got about half the symptoms listed. And you figure that that's good enough for at least an eighty-five. You flip to the back of the book to score it, when he stops you.

"The exam isn't going to be nearly this thorough." He gives your work a cursory inspection, before handing it back to you.

You nod. "It's better to overstudy, I guess."

"To a point."

You shut the book, because you get his drift.

"If it's not too personal… that is…" He takes a moment to ask, though. "The diner. Is it by choice?"

"The job, you mean?" And you think you get it. He thinks that you're being forced to work there. It kinda makes sense—full-time med student, which usually means zero time for a job. Which means you've got to have some sort of extraordinary circumstances—i.e. you're poor. And he's not entirely wrong… "No. Not really. Well, sorta." You shrug. "It's nice to have _some _money in your savings account, y'know?" And intuition says that no, he doesn't because everything about him screams rich.

He nods anyways.

And you feel the need to elaborate, for whatever reason. When you look back on this in the morning, you'll regret it. You're pretty sure of it. "Well, I mean… I'd rather not tell my daughter that she can't have nice things, I guess, is what I'm trying to say."

And then you hastily add "I'm not married." Just in case. _Of what? _

"Ah." He doesn't say anything more than that. You're sure that's gotten you two little red x's or whatever in his book. An unmarried man with a kid. Or, divorced guy, in your case. Neither of which bodes too well for your case.

"Now, if you don't mind me asking…" _Kids, wife, cat, maybe? _

He gives you a half-laugh, and it's kind of… off…? "I'm not married either." And you take that to mean that he doesn't have a kid. Doesn't surprise you too much.

You're expecting him to keep playing twenty questions, but he doesn't. So, you in your infinite wisdom decide to take another turn.

"You and your dad seem pretty close."

He gives you this indecipherable look for a quick second. "Not really." A minute or so passes, and then he checks his watch. "Actually, I have to…" he shakes your hand hastily. "It was a pleasure."

Well, shit. If you didn't know any better…

"Yeah."

And you think that this screwup is going to translate over like it did with Kirishiki.

But the ninety-two you get on the test says otherwise.


	5. part v

Notes: um a quick de-stresser before the first round of midterms I guess?

It's the same answer, over and over again. "I'm waiting for someone, but in the meantime, I'll have another cocktail." And you feel sorry for the poor guy 'cause it's half-past ten, and lights out time. But then you remember that your manager put you on lockup duty, and, well, you're not exactly sure how you're going to deal with your thoroughly wasted professor.

You do just about everything else first—clean the counters, turn off the grill, dump the trash, sweep. It's when you're checking to see if the lightbulbs need changing that you realize that the situation isn't going to get much better.

You ditch the uniform, and march back to the table. He's too stupidly happy for someone who just got stood up. You can a) kick him out and hope that he finds his way home, b) take him back to your place or c) drop him off at his. A seems too harsh, b, impossible, so you guess you're going to go with c, but only because you can't d) call someone he knows (i.e. his dad) to take him somewhere (i.e. his parents' house,) partially because this person that he knows just so happens to be in a position of authority (i.e. the dean of the medical school that you're enrolled in,) and might not want to see Professor Muroi being all dopey.

Might as well just get this over with. "Hey."

He waves back with the creepiest smile you've ever seen.

"Do you, uh, have a car?"

"Noooooope!" Well, that's one less thing to worry about.

"Okay. So, it's time to go." And you feel like you're going to have to physically move him. "I'm going to give you a ride home."

He giggles and you have no idea what's so damn funny. You say as much, and that only makes him laugh more. "You're cuuuute when y'r angry."

Christ. Is he hitting on you? "That's great. We can talk about how cute I am in the car."

And surprisingly, he complies. You have half a mind to tell him he can't sit up front, but that's a can of worms you don't really want to deal with. Having an argument in the sketchy parking lot at eleven-thirty seems to be asking for trouble.

You hand him the GPS and tell him to punch in his address. Which at this point, might just be a little bit of a stretch. He hands it back to you, and you find that he apparently lives on the East Coast. Because you absolutely _needed _to take a cross-country trip before writing your essay, due tomorrow.

You feel option c rapidly dissipating. Looks like you're left with the guess and hope theorem.

So long as he's as rich as you think he is…

You feel edgy for some reason. He hasn't said anything. And he's been giggling for far too long, you think.

And then you get stopped at a red light. The fact that he's trying to unzip your pants wouldn't nearly be as disturbing if he wasn't your professor. You don't know how you're going to maintain control of the car, 'cause he's literally centimeters away from hitting the brakes. Quite frankly, you're surprised that he didn't shift into reverse or something while climbing over.

You've told him to quit it, but clearly, that hasn't gotten through yet.

(Somewhere, you think, some divine being is laughing at you, because _this _is the closest you've gotten to… well… in a while. And instead of the cute lady at the registration office you've been buttering up for a while, your almost incapacitated professor is trying to—you don't even know what.)

You feel him trying to take your shoes off and you've given up. Obviously his ways of seduction are beyond your capacity for understanding. (And the fact that in the back of your mind, you sorta find this kinda attractive might've scared you into flirting with Nurse Kunihiro—but, that comes later.)

You stop when you get to the guest parking lot of this fancy high-rise filled with tons of multi-million dollar apartments. And you hope that you're not going to look like an idiot, when you drag him through the door.

By some miracle, the lady at the front desk recognizes him, and asks if you were planning to go up too. You nod, because he obviously isn't going to be able to unlock his door without your help. (Unless, y'know, it entailed some sort of offbeat seduction technique.)

You look around in his pockets for a while, because he's obviously not going to be of help. And he grabs your rear in response. You blush, and curse under your breath in turn. You finally (thank God, or whomever) find the key and let him in.

Before you can admire the apartment, you find yourself pressed up against a wall. He's kissing your neck, and you feel this tiny scrape of teeth, and—"Stop."

He whines. "Did you want dinner first?" And he's trying to kiss you again. "You shouldn't have left me there, you know…"

Great. He thinks you're his date. Better just… "Look. I'm Toshio… err… Ozaki."

"Oh! The cute stubbly one?" Well, at least he recognizes you.

"… yeah." You look for the lights while the professor is momentarily distracted. "Uh. I'm not whoever you were waiting for, so, uh…"

"Doesn't mean we can't have _fun_." The word fun is a little too heavily emphasized for your tastes.

"No." It's a bit firm. "I mean…" you draw a receipt and a pen out of your pocket, and scribble your cell onto it. "If you still want to do this, call me in the morning." Not that you're going to be any more available than you are now.

That somehow stops him, because "he gets it." Whatever "it" is. You somehow manage to get him to eat a piece of overly-extravagant bread, and drift off, with relatively few problems. When you're sure that he's going to be okay (or, at least, not too terribly hungover,) you leave.

And predictably, you don't get a call the next morning.


	6. part vi

**part vi**

The illustrious Professor Muroi is in the UK. Apparently he's giving a series of conferences (or maybe it's lectures, you aren't really sure, and quite frankly, you don't care.) He's out for the rest of the week, class is cancelled, no awkward conversations, you get to sleep in, everybody wins.

Except, nobody does. On your first day off, you get a call at four in the morning.

"Hello? Ozaki speaking."

She sighs. "Toshio…? Were you asleep…? I can call back a little bit later…"

"Kyouko." _Of course _it's your ex. "No. It's fine. I don't have anything to do until eleven-thirty."

She seems hesitant. "Okay. I just wanted to tell you before _they _did."

"Who's _they_?"

"The lawyers, the court, someone in the legal profession. I don't know."

"Wait. Did you file for custody?"

Another sigh. "…No."

You frown. "…so…?"

"Toshio, I quit my job."

"Oh. Are you thinking of working somewhere else, or…"

"I want to do a graduate program."

"Congrats. Did you already start applying, or…?" You'd be lying if you said you didn't feel the least bit guilty. Kyouko probably would've ended up on the penthouse suite of some super-apartment-complex. (She managed to graduate from the econ department with honors, despite everything.)

"Yes. But that's not it." You can hear her tap her fingers against the counter. "Toshio, they're cutting child support."

"… Shit."

"I'm sorry."

"No. Don't be."

"…you don't get paid for clinical rotations, do you?"

"No. But I could probably just apply to a regular graduate program or something. Get a masters, then a pHD, you know. I'd still be a doctor… and I'd make money…"

There's a long pause. "Look. I have to go. Take care."

"You too." The line goes dead, and you just sit there. You're ninety-five percent sure that you're not going to be able to get back to sleep, so you dig through your drawers, and fish out a half-empty pack of cigarettes, and a neglected lighter.


End file.
